


Villainous Victory

by Lyrae_Immortalis



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Banter, Competition, Established Relationship, Flirting, Future Fic, Kissing, M/M, The Iceberg Lounge, Villains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-02 16:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13322541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae_Immortalis/pseuds/Lyrae_Immortalis
Summary: “You’re going to lose this year, Oswald.”“There’s not a chance in the world of that happening.”For the fifth year in a row, Oswald and Ed compete against each other for the title of Greatest Super-villain.





	1. The Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> This is loosely based around the Halloween Heists on Brooklyn Nine-Nine, only with a Gotham twist on it. 
> 
> Happy Reading!

“You’re going to lose this year, Oswald.”

“There’s not a chance in the world of that happening.” 

Ed smirks as Oswald steps forward and glares up at him, eyes electrified at the prospect of their annual month-long challenge. What began as a bunch of drunken rambles, swirled inside proclamations of grandeur and excellence, swiftly transformed itself into a game neither of them planned to fail.

The winner proclaimed the _greatest_ super-villain in Gotham, and granted one favour or request of their choosing.

“I’ll have you remember, I was two steps away from taking out the win last year,” Ed boasts, hands perched on his hips. If it wasn't for a few unfortunate mistakes, he would have been the one wearing the metaphorical crown; instead, it remained on Oswald’s brow, for another twelve _long_ , tedious months.

Thrusting his shoulders back, Oswald scoffs and shakes his head, smile twinging the corners of his lips. “Do you remember last year, Ed? From my recollections, it doesn’t appear as though you were overwhelmingly victorious. Let’s see—” shuffling over to the bar, Oswald pours himself three fingers of his favourite whiskey, “—you were poisoned by Ivy, threatened by Cat, almost _gassed_ by Crane, _oh_ , and to make matters _worse_ , I had to order half my men off from attacking you. Without any involvement in this little _friendly_ competition of ours, I still took out the title, because there is one thing I can always count on when it comes to you—

“My charming personality, advanced intellect, and dazzling good looks?”

“—your recklessness!” Oswald chimes in, confidence billowing off him in waves. “You will go to _extreme_ , and often convoluted lengths, in order to come out on top…and in the end, that leads to your own downfall and a week-long pity party. You may as well fold now, Edward, dear. I don’t plan on losing.”

“Ah, but you see, my fine feathered friend,” Ed says, tapping Oswald on the nose, savouring their little tête-à-tête, “in saying that, you’ve unknowingly buckled yourself into the seat of defeat—as opposed to that rather ostentatious _throne_ of yours.” Throwing a wink, Ed grins. He knows he is going to pay for half these comments at a later date—Oswald is a stroppy man at times—but they certainly are fun to spout…in the name of amiable competition, of course. “Over the past year, I have pulled off heists you could only _dream_ about. I’ve grown, expanded my mind, and very nearly outsmarted that _insufferable_ caped crusader on several occasions. This simple challenge we have delegated ourselves, will be akin to a gentle spring breeze in May.”

“If Gotham possessed such a thing,” Oswald retorts, pausing to take a sip of his beverage; classic Penguin power move. Ed recognises the expression passing over his face, one of inquisitiveness and drive; the Penguin isn’t one to be underestimated, no sirree. He’s clever, cunning, strategic, and unpredictable. He’s one of only a handful of people capable of squaring off against Ed in a battle of wits—the perfect partner and competitor.

Blood pumping faster through his veins, Ed steps forward to insinuating himself against Oswald, and run his palms down his sides. “Shall we wager for the same stakes?” he asks, ducking his head to whisper into Oswald’s ear.

“Your requests never change,” Oswald teases, curling an arm around Ed’s waist, allowing him to slip in closer. “But don’t rely on your _wiles_ to secure yourself the win this year. That trick will not blind me so easily, as it did the first time.” 

Chuckling proudly to himself, Ed captures Oswald’s lips in a kiss, silencing his tongue, and chases the flavour of alcohol until it withers away. Their friendly banter is swept aside as they exchange soft sounds of pleasure, which intermingle inside their billowing breaths. Clutching each other closer, hands grasping tighter, Ed _very nearly_ forgets the reason behind the kiss, too focused on preparing himself for what _customarily_ follows, but as he presses his arousal against Oswald, moan coiled in the back of his throat, he is gently, yet somehow _forcefully_ , pushed back.

“What? You—you tease!” Gathering scraps of dignity he’d rather throw away, Ed pouts into his frown. “How is _that_ supposed to sustain me for a month?” Rules and decorum be damned, they could postpone the beginning of their contest a few hours…at least until Oswald has taken him once or twice. Is that too much to ask? It’s not as though he’d be the only one enjoying himself.

Tsking, and wagging his finger through the air, Oswald stares Ed down. “That’s not my concern, Edward. It’s _your_ fault that we have to resort to these measures in the first place.”

“Whilst I admit I can, _somewhat_ , be a slave to my libido, the same can be said about you,” Ed tries to reason, but Oswald isn’t hearing it, too busy staring at his nails in mock nonchalance. Fine, if this is the way he wants to play, then so be it. Ed is resolved to making this the most _unsatisfying,_ displeasing month of his life.

For five years they have been dancing this dance, much to the displeasure of those around them. As expected, Ed won the first two rounds, narrowly scraping in that second victory with an extended bout of intercourse both parties _thoroughly_ indulged in…that is until Oswald realised he had been duped, and forbade him from attempting to do so again. Well, Ed is not a _one trick pony_ , but that did hinder his subsequent attempts, with Oswald swiftly balancing their scorecards. Not wanting to lose for the third year in a row, or concede defeat, Ed has been devising schemes, formulating riddles, working his ass off since the previous round concluded. This year he is determined to surprise and amaze, not that he has difficulty performing such astounding feats, but this will _indeed_ be something special.

Sliding on his hat, Ed tugs at the cuff of his sleeves, then with a flourished twirl he snatches up his signature cane, throws his arms wide, and bows. “May the best man win.”

“I plan on doing so.”

 _Oh, he’s infuriating._ Licking his bottom lip, peering up from beneath the brim of his hat, Ed swallows down his retort. They could continue this little dalliance for hours, but in the end, what would that achieve? It’s just words without actions, useless boasting. They could be having sex!

Spinning on his heel, Ed waves goodbye over his shoulder. “Farewell, Penguin. Try not to miss me too much.”

“Won’t be a problem,” Oswald jibes, making Ed want to rush over and kiss him again until he admits the truth. “See you in a month, Riddler. Try not to get yourself killed. I’d hate to be forced to organise a funeral during my celebrations.”

Tutting to himself, Ed exits the Iceberg Lounge with a spring in his step and makes his way back to his personal cornerstone of the city. Although he may live with Oswald, one does need their own space every once in a while, lest they be driven insane by the sound of constant chirping and squawking—something Oswald and his nettlesome birds share in common.

Not bothering to sit and relax—one thing he does not have time to indulge in—Ed shuffles over to his desk and withdrawing boxes, schematics, and fuses with one hand, while he dials a dear friend with the other. It’s time to get started on the first stage of his elaborate plan.

“Selina, darling,” he drawls, before she even attempts to voice an exasperated sigh, “remember that favour you owe me?”

“I don’t know, Eddie. It doesn’t ring a bell.”

Rolling his eyes, Ed smiles. It’s often this way with her, another dance of sorts. What happened to friendly comradery? Do people no longer possess any form of loyalty? Like most rogues, Selina refuses to allow herself to be used, to be someone relied on, preferring to go it alone in the world unless the situation deems it impossible. Ed’s not about to let her back out of a promise; she’s not that lucky. Flopping down into his chair, he swivels left and right, humming lightly. “Do the codes for the History Museum, or Gotham City Bank jingle the charm on that collar of yours, or shall I resort to sharing this rather _compromising_ information with—”

“Fine, fine, you’ve made your point. I’ll help you. Remind me why we are friends again?” Ed opens his mouth with a witty comment tingling the tip of his tongue, but Selina cuts in with a huff. _Cats_. “Nevermind, Eddie. When do you need the items by?”

“Shall we say, three days from now, at 10 pm? As for where…I’ll make it simple for you. When is the time of a clock like the whistle of a train?”


	2. The Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locked away in Arkham Asylum, Ed begins to rethink the logistics of his plan, that is until Oswald pays him a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the length of time this took me to write, there have been a few personal tragedies in my life that killed my motivation, but I'm back with a brand new chapter!
> 
> Happy reading.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Not yet. Not _now._ It wasn’t. It wasn’t. _It wasn’t!_

There’s no conceivable way his plans could have unravelled so quickly, no _real_ rhyme or reason why he should be in Arkham _now_ , either, but as usual, the entire _flipping_ universe has it out for him…because why not aggravate the Riddler more? Why not add another obstacle in his path, and watch him scurry around like an ant caught in a thunderstorm? Why not destroy months of careful planning in one foul swoop?

_Damn you, Oswald. This is all your fault!_

Is driving home from a meeting with a friend honestly considered a crime now? Yes, that journey _may_ have involved stealing a car, and a quick detour to an underground dealer for a few sought after items, but do those action justify his detainment? And yes, Ed may have wreaked havoc in that dust filled warehouse, which inevitably culminated in a fiery blaze and a few less newly-made enemies, but is _that_ truly enough of a reason for his arrest? No. No, it is not.

The Bat should be commending him for his public service—removing a few uncivilised cretins from the darkened corners of the city. It’s not like they posed much value to society, outside of illicit activities.

_Why am I cursed to bear the brunt of other people’s stupidity?_

To make matters worse, Ed isn’t even offered the _courtesy_ of a trial. For people like him, the alternative method of justice is a punch to the face by that _leather-clad rodent_ , a quick trip to the GCPD for processing, and then he’s _shipped_ off to Arkham like he’s some meals-on-wheels order making its weekly trip around town. And they say it's the _criminals_ failing this city; Ed would loudly contest that the judicial system is to blame—in fact, he has. 

_This is just a hiccup. I am not so easily defeated._

Holding his head high—despite his bruised, bloodied, and battered state—Ed _allows_ the Arkham guards—Jones and Henderson—to escort him down several barren corridors, through four electronic gates, and all the way down to his lonesome little cell located on the east wing of the facility. He goes willingly, without protest. Childish antics are beneath one such as him.

“I can walk _myself_ ,” Ed protests, with a throaty growl. 

Throwing his weight forward with a kick of his legs, he rips himself free of the guards’ grasp and cries out when his bruised face kisses the concrete wall with a resounding crack. “ _Argh_. Jesus...ow ow _ow_.” 

Ears ringing, tears spilling over his waterline and down his cheeks, Ed collapses to the floor, temporarily overcome—it feels like his whole body may as well be a tattered boxing bag, two hits away from emptying its contents onto the sweat-stained floor, for he has little more to give. Regardless, he has an image to protect, so with a grit of his teeth, Ed rises to his feet and powers through the oppressive darkness encroaching on his vision.

“What, no apology?” Ed bellows, loud enough that half the asylum can hear him. A few nearby inmates— _patients_ —snigger, but the two blue-clad simpletons only stare at back at him with constipated expressions and open mouths. “Let’s get one thing straight—” the sniggering continues; Ed resorts to shouting “—I did not _ask_ , nor do I _enjoy_ your touches. So keep your hands where they belong, and you’ll retain full use of your extremities. Deal?” 

The threat snaps the men out of their stupor; Henderson reaches for his batton and flicks it open with a wave of his wrist, while Jones rolls his eyes. Ed vows to kill him—the latter one, both of them. It doesn’t matter. Nobody gets away with sassing or mocking the Riddler, least of all _Arkham staff_. They don’t have the moral high ground, as far as he’s concerned. 

Heart pounding, Ed braces himself for an attack, but when Jones steps forward, Ed finds himself roughly manipulated into the dark narrow hole in the wall. “Shut up, Nygma,” the man says, before sealing the door between them.

Ed doesn’t go quietly. He curses. He shouts. He strains his vocal cords to mere strings, and pounds on the unyielding metal door until he’s raw and breathless. There’s no response. Arms flopping at his sides, Ed weakly throws his foot forward one last time, then shuffles over to his bed to sleep away his failures. 

_Wonderful. Simply wonderful._

¿?

Shoulders seised, teeth grit so hard his jaw aches, Ed shreds the morning newspaper into a flurry of jagged pieces, which snowfall around him. Frankly, unless there are reports of his own brilliant achievements, he cares little for the thoughts of the masses—but this, this is something else entirely. 

Using bold headlines, and sloppily composed articles as his medium, Oswald mocks him, insults him, and demeans him, day after day, cutting deep into Ed’s ego. The Penguin did _this_ , the Penguin did _that_. The Penguin is believed to have been involved in the latest stock market crash. The Penguin is rumoured to.. _.blah blah blah_. It all cumulates together to create a sole, undeniable message: The Penguin is _winning_. 

Folding his arms together, Ed huffs, and the strands of hair tickling his forehead flutter then fall flat. While Oswald is out there, lining his side of the scoreboard with tally marks that’d make Victor Zsasz proud, Ed is confined to his cell, his own pursuit stagnant. It is a testament to his willpower, that he remains where he is, squirrelled away like in rats in a sewer. Why, he’d be out of Arkham already, if it wasn’t for his need to make Oswald—

“Nygma, you got a visitor,” a guard shouts, and Ed grins ear to ear.

“It’s about damn time!” Shooting to his feet, bouncing up and down, Ed pinches his jumpsuit and gives it a little shimmy. “And here I thought I’d be spending another day watching the mould darken the walls.” 

¿?

It’s been one hundred and eighty-six hours since Ed’s last laid eyes on Oswald, and as school-girlish as it makes him sound, a burst of warmth originating from the centre of his chest warms his extremities when he enters the room. 

Seated at the table in the corner, angled with his back facing the wall, Oswald wears the expression of passive boredom, seemingly disconnected with the world around him. If he is surprised by the bruising on Ed’s face, he fails to make it known, other than the barely perceivable unclenching of his hands, and tense muscle jumping in his jaw. For all the _presence_ Oswald brings to the room he may as well be a store mannequin.

Smirk twinging his lips, Ed arches forward to press a kiss to Oswald’s cheek, lingering just long enough to catch a whiff of his comforting cologne—something he’d vehemently deny if asked. _It’s heavenly._

“Oswald,” Ed drawls in greeting; the syllables drip off his tongue with a rich decadence. “Whilst I'm overjoyed to see you have finally found time in your _busy_ schedule to pay me a visit, your complete lack of flowers has me _gutted_. What happened to our romance?”

With a slow, almost methodical blink, Oswald tilts his head back, and— _oh_ , Ed knows that expression, and he dislikes it immensely. Conscious mind asserting control over his features, it’s straighter than a poker player’s mask, but the burning message ablaze in Oswald’s eyes is clear. _He isn’t happy_.

So, when Oswald inevitably lifts a hand to cup Ed’s cheek, Ed nary moves a muscle. Breath held, his pulse echoes in his ears as Oswald’s thumb gently maps the tender bruise with restrained precision and due care. To any onlooker, the scene could be perceived as something sickeningly sweet, but Ed knows better—he’s disappointed him. 

“You think you deserve to be rewarded for such stupidity?” Oswald asks, dropping his hand to the table; Ed gaze falls to the floor. “I warned you, Edward—recklessness will _always_ be your undoing, and, well, here we are.”

“Yes, indeed,” Ed mutters, shuffling over to the opposite chair. 

Last week he was told pride would be his undoing, the week before it was his desire for _attention._ What’s next? Shall Oswald be belittling him for giving into bodily functions like sleep or sustenance? Like he’s never made mistakes…. Tucking his hands under his arms, Ed leans back in his chair and rudely throws his feet up on the table. 

“Well, go on then. Start gloating. I know you want to.” 

Wetting his bottom lip with a flick of his tongue, Oswald actually appears as though he is considering it, greying eyebrows halfway up his forehead. “It’s no fun when you’re like this,” he eventually shares.

“No fun? No... _fun_?” Ed screeches, throwing himself forward. “I’m sorry my _unlawful_ incarceration has an impact on your prideful mood, Oswald, but you should at least take solace in the fact that _you_ are not the one trapped inside this hell hole of a facility. _No fun._ Are you aware the Joker is currently in-house? That _alone_ should be a testament to what I am dealing with.”

Oswald nods, rather passively, then says, “He was arrested only hours before you. Something about an altercation in the—”

“ _Whatever_ ,” Ed cuts in, settling back down, “I care little for reports on that nuisance.” Balling his hands, Ed presses them against his chest. For a minimum of three hours every day, he is accosted with the rattling laughter of the Joker. Not even a muzzle could not keep that man quiet, Ed’s tried… _everyone’s tried_. Sewing his lips shut wouldn’t serve as much of a solution either—the Joker would only tear through them with a bloodied smile. Vanity is not something he has on his list of priorities, and it shows. “He’s driving me insane, Oswald.”

“You’re in the right place, then.”

Ed ignores him. “They’re housing him in the cell beside my own! One would think after all these years, they’d realise that this isn’t any sort of a reputable solution. How is this _phantasmical_ notion of rehabilitation supposed to occur when I feel _compelled_ to rip the laughter box out of the clown’s throat and pulverise it into dust?”

“What’s that old saying?” Oswald asks, tapping his chin, completely disinterested in Ed’s ramblings, his eyes flit up and away. “Oh, yes: a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down?”

“Mary Poppins, Arkham is not. Distraction wouldn’t help me, either—and besides, you know better than anyone, that this place doesn’t treat its _patients_ with hugs and kisses.” They’d sooner strap them to the electric chair and be done with it, rather than treat them...not that Ed requires _treatment_. He’s never felt saner. One could compare him to Tetch, to Pyg, to even the Bat _himself_ , and see only a sound man in comparison. 

Latching onto a thought more pleasing and rewarding in nature— _distraction_ —Ed stretches out his long legs, and slowly drags his foot up Oswald’s calf, skin tingling at the point of connection, cheeks warming. “Speaking of _sugar_...care to help me out?”

“If you’re asking if I’m going to secure your release, I refuse,” Oswald says with a self-satisfied chuckle, before putting an end to Ed’s seduction attempt with a weak tap of his cane. “If you’re hinting toward a conjugal visit—”

“I thought that was obvious.”

Eyes twinkling, Oswald gasps like a little old lady: mouth open, hand to chest, fingers splayed in a circle. “Shame shame, Edward, darling. What would the _people_ think? Engaging in such activities outside the sanctity of our home is cause for a _scandal_ , and you wouldn’t want that, now would you?”

When guilt comes to haunt him, Ed takes in a breath and tries to dislodge the heavy feeling in his chest, the one that burns both hot and cold, and makes balloon animals out of his gastrointestinal tract. While he’s aware Oswald means no harm, their back-and-forth banter often sees them touch on topics that aren’t overwhelmingly kind, he has trouble separating himself from this issue, for it was something he once saw fit to be concerned over—not that he’s updated Oswald on that recent development. “ _Hmph_.” Chewing on his thumbnail, Ed turns his attention to a stain on the floor. 

“That’s your retort?” Oswald jibes; Ed continues to give him the cold shoulder, forcing himself not to fold. “Where’s that patented Riddler sass? Where’s your _fire_?” He knows he’s won when a heavy sigh preludes the creak of a chair, and Oswald’s strong fingers card through the curls of his hair and massage his scalp. Ed shivers. “I struck a nerve, didn’t I?”

“A system of them,” Ed says, relaxing little-by-little into each touch. Eyes closed, breath steady, he soaks, bathes, and indulges in the snippet of silence Oswald pours over him. It’s the first moment of peaceful relief he’s found in days—but the moment is fleeting, limited... _over_. 

“Listen,” Oswald begins, tilting Ed’s head back to catch his eyes; Ed lick his lips, “provided you win, I will indulge your every fancy, no matter how salacious it is—however, the month is not yet over, so the rules still apply. If you wish to put yourself back in the running, then you’re going to have to find your own way out of here—although based on past results, time will be up before you do.”

A surge of vigour races through, from the ends of Ed’s toes to the tippity-tip of his head, burning bright, unfastening all the knots inside of him. He smiles shallowly and shrugs for show, but claps and chuckles internally. _Don’t count me out just yet, you old bird. I have you exactly where I want you._

...and he does. For four days, Ed’s pursuit has been as unmoving as a child’s school performance, but with Oswald’s visit, he can _finally_ get the _real_ show on the road. It’s his turn to shine.

On his way back to his cell, following Oswald’s departure, Ed puts his thoroughly drafted plans in motion. 

“Please, at least give me a pencil and paper. Something to engage my mind,” he begs, for the fourth time in as many days. 

“Why, so you can write love notes, or make a pass as the next guard who tries to touch you?” 

Focusing on the latter half of the guard’s statement, Ed smirks, noting the three feet of distance between them. “Ah, so you _have_ heard the old saying,” he says, spinning around to walk backwards, with his hands resting on the back of his head. “And here I thought such _simple_ knowledge was beyond one such as yourself. They _do_ say a pen is sharper than a sword—I suppose the same could be said about a pencil, but alas, it would purely be for entertainment's sake.” 

The guard’s brows fall to cover half his eyes, so in response, Ed slips on a mask of distaste, and turns his back on the guard, before grumbling, “At this rate, I’d settle for an etch-a-sketch and some gum. Honestly, is that too much to ask?”

As it turns out, it wasn’t. Two days later, at the end of communal breakfast, Ed was begrudgingly handed both items, and in-tune with his character, he thanked the guard in a civilised but arrogant manner. To any other, the out-of-date gum and the cracked and chipped child’s toy would have been a punch in the gut, but to Ed those faulty, overlooked items mean _freedom_.

There are only two more objects he requires now: a well-weathered steel wool pad and a battery, and then he’ll be able to sprint away from the oppressive, clinical, unsanitary institution, and onto the podium to shout his victory.

Biding his time over the course of his stay, Ed behaves as an ideal patient, whilst still retaining his “patented sass”, as Oswald so lovingly calls it. He sits alone, and silently fiddles with the dials of his etch-a-sketch, drawing and erasing images minute after minute, and works to commit each guard’s rotation to memory. He attends group therapy, eats his meals, indulges doctors and shrinks alike, and subtly causes chaos wherever he can. 

All in all, its been a rather eventful stay, but it’s not one he plans to continue. This hasn’t been a vacation, or a relaxing retreat—it’s mediated hell, and Ed wants nothing more to do with it. 

Late one night, when the corridors are barren, and every minuscule squeak echoes louder than it ought to, Ed drops to the floor and crawls under his bed, only to be subjected to a full-bodied sneeze seconds later when a flurry of dust particles target his nose like a resentful army of foot soldiers. Wiping his nose on the cuff of his sleeve, Ed silently curses the cleaning staff for their failures— _honestly, how hard is it to use a broom? The troglodytes_ —then wriggles himself toward the face-sized ventilation grate embedded in the wall. 

There’s no time to dilly-dally.

“Joker,” Ed whispers. 

“ _Joker_ ,” he hisses a little louder when his call goes unanswered. 

“Joker? Never heard of him.” The man _jokes_ , dropping into view in a flash of white, green and red. Head colliding with the underside of his bed, Ed stifles a yelp. “Eddie-boy! I thought you forgot about me. My _poor_ sensitive feelings were hurt.”

 _Like you possess any_ , Ed thinks as the clown’s red lips curve toward his eyes, causing his skin to crawl at the unnaturality of it. 

“You insult my intelligence, Joker. The day anyone forgets you...well frankly, I cannot envision such a day, unless someone were to brainwash the entire planet—” Ed makes a mental note, “—so how ‘bout we put _that_ particular conversation on hold for now, and speak about the matter at hand.” 

"I must say, it warms my old, dead heart knowing that you’ve turned to _me_ for help. I never thought I’d live to see the day—all those close calls and all.” If it wasn’t customary for the Joker to laugh maniacally all hours of the night, Ed might feel a little trepidatious, but as it stands, the clown even cackles in his sleep (in lieu of snores), so Ed bides his time by picking at the little nicks on his cuticles, as he waits for the hoots and hollers to cease. _So much for no dilly-dallying._ “You better hold up your end of the deal, Eddie. It’ll be your funeral if you don’t.”

“I made you a promise, one I intend to keep.” Pressing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Ed muffles his sigh, and second guesses his inane decision to partner up with the Joker. _What was I thinking? Desperation has made me careless._ “Now, will you help me out? We have mere minutes before the guard’s return.”

“Just gimme the signal, and we’ll get this ball a-rollin’.”

“ _Thank you_.”

Shimmying his way out from under the bed, Ed gathers all his items and arranges them in clockwise formation, from first to last. Mind focused, hands steady, he rips away the peeling layers of tape, and cracks open the flimsy etch-a-sketch case to release its contents, then with haste, he stirs together the powdered aluminium and rusted iron from the steel wool pad he shredded earlier. Fingers throbbing, small lacerations continuing to ache a protest every motion, Ed gathers the homemade thermite concoction and sprinkles it around the primitive window bars, taking care not to lose a single speck. 

“Joker, _now!_ ” he shouts under-breath, readying the pre-prepared foil gum wrapper, and battery he acquired from the clock in the dining hall.

A reverberating series of _booms_ rattle through the silent halls of the asylum as the Joker bashes on his cell door, laughing in a way that doesn’t _seem_ forced. _How does he do it?_ Each hit disturbs the air, almost as if it was physically afraid of the ruckus, too hesitant to interact in fear of its own safety—a response the Joker receives almost daily. “Wakey wakey, Arkham inmates, it’s time for our weekly comedy show. Your host for the evening is none other than... _myself_ —” 

Unable to hear the Joker over the way his mind screams out in agony, Ed stamps and stomps his foot, slamming it into the ground in repeat succession, doing anything he can to offset the pain firing through him. With his fingers clasped around either end of the battery, the rising temperature targets his phalangeal bones and scorches them black—at least to Ed, that’s what it feels like. It’s merciless and unforgiving. _Work, dammit, work. Come on you useless piece of crap. Don’t fail me now._ Breathing through clenched teeth, Ed drags himself over to the window, cursing and praying in tandem, and when the foil _finally_ catches alight, he wastes little time in igniting the thermite. 

The fire spreads quickly and evenly. 

In a blindingly beautiful exothermic reaction, it winds itself around the posts like a great hungry serpent, spewing out a shower of sparks as it digests everything in its path. Ed watches on proudly—that is until a thick plume of smoke fills the room and obscures his vision. Commending himself on a job well done, physically patting himself on the back, Ed steps around the molten metal speckling the floor and jumps up on his bed to begin hammering at the half-digested rickety rods with the etch-a-sketch case. _This might actually work—I mean of course it will._

“—the guy goes into the hospital, okay?” Joker continues, without pause, much to the other inmate’s chagrin. Who knew he’d be so trustworthy? The Joker isn’t often one to be relied on. “His wife's just had a baby and he can't wait to see them both. So he meets the doctor and he says, ‘Oh doc, I've been —” 

One by one, the bars give way, but not soon enough. The inmates have stopped talking, and when that happens, everyone knows there’s a problem. Ears stretching to catch every sound, Ed can’t help but bristle as the room around him begins to quake with the threat—no, the _reality_ of an approaching stampede. Guards: an army of them, weighed down by battons, shields, and guns advance on the cell block. _Just try and catch me, you fools._ With a small shake of laughter, and a surge of adrenaline, Ed hauls himself through the window—hands sustaining further injury, burns and cuts alike—and out the other side, just as the door to his cell is tossed open.

The two-story fall is over quickly; Ed lands on the ground with a solid _thud_ and an even louder _shout_.

Rising to his feet, taking no time to catalogue his injuries, Ed’s breath comes in small spurts, hot and nervous as he launches into a run. At his sides, his blistering fingers curl into sweaty fists, swinging forward as if it would make him faster. _Run, run, run._ Behind him, he hears sounds of a scuffle, protests, and jeers—a few loud enlivened cheers are wormed into the mix too, courtesy of the Joker. 

Ed doesn’t stop. 

Rounding the corner, heading toward the side of the facility, his feet slip outwards on the wet autumn leaves; the cold evening air shocking his throat and lungs as he inhales deeper, faster. With each footfall, a jarring pain shoots ankle to knee, ankle to knee. Perhaps jumping from such a height wasn't so smart, but it was the only option he had. In his chest, his heart beats frantically, frighteningly, but it doesn’t slow him down. 

He can’t afford to stop now.

Panting and huffing, Ed doesn’t slow, nor does he pause, not until he reaches the outer perimeter of the Asylum and catches sight of Selina perched against a motorcycle he’s certain isn’t one of her own. Squeezing himself through the small gap in the wires, which grab and claw in their desperation to keep him confined, Ed bursts out the other side breathless and free.

“Didn’t know you could run so fast, Eddie,” she teases, with the fleeting look of surprise highlighting her eyes.

“I... _try not to,_ ” Ed wheezes, bowed over, hands on his knees. _I’m getting too old for this._ “Thank you for coming.” True friendship is a rarity, few are lucky enough to possess, and although Selina would protest at such a blatant definition of their relationship, Ed cannot help but feel comforted by the fact. She cares, but she rarely ever does she show it.

“Don’t expect any more favours, after this. We’re even—” she hands him a helmet, and climbs on her bike, “—besides, isn’t it time you think about settling down? You’re not what one would call... _young._ ” 

Snapping his head up, Ed bares his teeth and glares. Just when he was thinking kindly of her, she insults him. “Excuse you! I’m not even _fifty_. Someone needs to teach you some ma—” 

The bike rumbles to life beneath Selina’s hand, roaring like an untamed beast. _Don’t think that’ll save you from my ire,_ Ed thinks, sliding on his helmet, snapping the visor closed, _this conversation is not yet over._ Sliding on behind her, feet on footrests, Ed shrieks as Selina throttles off the down road without so much of a warning. Clutching her sides, then onto his seat when she hits him with her elbow, Ed trains his eyes on the dome of light encasing the city.

_I’m coming for you, Oswald. But first, I have a competition to win!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm thinking about possibly adding an additional chapter to this, but that really depends on what I could fit into it.

**Author's Note:**

> I always have fun writing these future fics. There’s just something so entertaining about Ed and Oswald being their big badass selves...and yet somehow they continue to act like children.


End file.
